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I don't quite remember that

pretty projection, or dubious construction.

The dream that kissed with tangible lips

I can't quite recall

The etches on paper that spelled out your hatred 

for resentment, and smiles in the bedroom. 

Placing chaste, pleading kisses 

On cold, wind-chilled cheeks 

As we walked in the frost of an idle hour. 

I cannot elicit 

A lazy shape of limbs

Sprawled across threadbare blankets. 

Warm hearts and cold feet. 

Bookshops piled to the rafters;

Places of whispered exchanges 

And smiling, arm through arm. 

I'm afraid I know nothing 

Of the splendour of a gentle October,

Or a precious June. 

Running across teeming, cobbled streets

Barefoot.

A halo of dainty blossoms, pink and blue, 

Crowned in twisting hair.

Tendrils falling to a delicate collar-bone. 

I can't conjure up

The taste and stain of cheap red wine, 

 A tongue that laughed and sung  

To Louis Armstrong, on the radio. 

In cold Septembers 

and aching Decembers, 

 Left to my reckless imagination...

I can do nothing, but remember.